this sleeve of heart and deceit
by gyoomie
Summary: "You never fail to impress, milady." — marinette, chat noir, and a great deal of running. celebrity baker/street journalist au.


**[ note ]** so this was meant to be a drabble for the end of 2018 but it's been uhh three and a half weeks and this is the end-result O": pls note that i've only watched the first twelve(?) episodes of season 1 back when the series was only released in france/korea (up until about... _kung food_ , i think?) so i'm sorry for any mistakes orz;;

special thanks to **zy** (shay_lavie on twitter) for looking this over for me. also, this is a bit of a ten-years-later au – mari+noir are 24 here, and the rest of the characters have been aged up accordingly. enjoy!

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 **this sleeve of heart and deceit**

 _(there's nothing more to lose, you see –  
we're in no position to be loved, either)_

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 _Hm._ Marinette frowns at the Métro map overhead, her gaze travelling from the station she boarded from to the station she's heading towards. _One more stop left... I think._

She casts a furtive glance around the train carriage; it seems like no one's noticed that _young_ _celebrity baker Marinette Dupain-Cheng_ is in their midst, which is exactly what she'd hoped for. While it's nice to be recognised as a judge on a popular baking competition show, it's also incredibly exhausting when all you want to do is catch up with an old childhood friend.

 _It should be fine, though_ , she reasons, reaching out to grab the handrail as the train rumbles to a stop. She'd dropped more than enough 'hints' to the press about taking a few weeks off to visit her parents in Wenzhou, so they should be far, far away from Alya and their hometown here in Paris.

Marinette closes her eyes for a moment, a smile curving on her lips as she pictures a quiet afternoon with Alya at their favourite café spot. _Yeah, it'll be just fine._

She reopens her eyes, stepping off the train and onto the platform –

'There she is! Marinette! _Marinette!_ '

– only to freeze in place at the flashing lights surrounding her.

.

'Marinette, hey! Look over here! Marinette!'

'Marinette! Any thoughts on Chloé Bourgeois' challenge to a one-on-one bake-off?'

'Please, Marinette! Just a moment of your time!'

 _More like a lifetime of moments_ , she scoffs, cursing the linear layout of the underground train station as she leaps over suitcases and sidesteps around children and navigates blindly through the crowds. How – _how_ did they find her? How did they know she was here? She'd been so careful!

With the end of the platform fast approaching and a quick scan of her surroundings, Marinette briefly weighs her options. _There are no options_. Damn it. She careens around the corner at top speed – but instead of running faster, she ducks into the shadows of the tunnel and holds her breath.

The paparazzi storm right past her, stampeding towards the exit like a wild herd.

It's only when their phone clicks and frenzied cries fade into the distance that she finally deems it safe, sagging against the wall with a sigh of relief.

 _Well, then_. Marinette makes a face. _So much for a quiet afternoon._

Should she just drop Alya a text to reschedule? She may've thrown the paparazzi off for now, but they tailed her all the way to _Paris_ , for god's sake. They won't give up so easily; if anything, they're probably prowling the streets around the station exits, waiting to pounce on her the second she emerged.

 _Worse, I'm wearing bright colours today_ , Marinette mourns. Her grey leggings and brown boots aren't the most eye-catching, but her bright-red trench-coat, equally bright-red beanie and royal-blue scarf are practically beacons for attention. _It's not like someone can just wear my clothes and take my place._

She purses her lips, absently pulling her trench-coat tighter around her. _Unless..._

.

'She's heading that way! Marinette! _Marinette!_ '

 _Woah, déjà vu_. Feet pounding against the pavement and scarf rippling in the wind, Marinette remains focussed on two things: keeping up the pace, and keeping a close eye behind her. The paparazzi had spotted her shortly after she left the station – just as she'd predicted, the damn vultures – and they've been chasing her ever since.

She takes a quick peek over her shoulder; most of them are starting to slow down by now, thank god, while she's barely even breaking a sweat. Her high school track-and-field coach would've been proud.

Marinette shakes her head – _focus, Mari!_ – before slowing to look at her watch.

 _1.57pm._

She snaps her head up, eyes wide. Whips her head back to check the street sign she just jogged past, then squints into the distance ahead of her, just to be sure.

Sure enough, on the far end of the street, she can faintly make out the purple glint of a bicycle, familiar and well-used. _Right on schedule._

Fingers trembling and adrenaline kicking in, Marinette unties the belt of her trench-coat and wiggles her arms out of her sleeves, pulling the lapels together with one hand so it won't fly off her shoulders. She manages to do the same with her scarf after a bit of a struggle, keeping a firm grip on both ends of the fabric with her other hand.

She looks up, brilliant blue locking on to worn-purple. Only one shot at this; better make it count.

As soon as she's within range, Marinette flings both articles of clothing away from herself – and onto the large cream-coloured teddy bear slumped in the bicycle's rear basket.

Miraculously, they actually fall directly onto the bear's head.

 _Right, okay. I've got this._ The paparazzi don't seem to be anywhere nearby, so she still has some time before they come barrelling around the street corner. After a sharp intake of breath to steady herself, she secures the sleeves of her coat around the bear's neck, fanning out the back as much as possible, and drapes the length of her scarf over its nape.

 _Loop around, tie a knot, pull it through_ , Marinette chants, taking a step back to survey her handiwork. _Okay. Okayokayokay. Is it secure? I hope it's secure. Don't know, can't stay – gotta go!_

Nerves finally shot to nothing, she strips off her beanie, tosses it at the nearest object – a poodle tied to the lamppost – and like a ladybug flying away home, she flees.

.

'M... Marinette...'

From her spot on a wooden bench, Marinette peers over the top of her randomly-procured newspaper as a purple blur zips by; moments later, a group of heavily-panting photographers trudge past, looking a little worse for wear but otherwise still in dogged pursuit.

A grin begins to spread on her lips, small but victorious. It worked – it actually worked! And it's barely even – a quick check of her watch – 2.18pm. _Still pretty early_ , Marinette notes, beaming. Perhaps her quiet afternoon hasn't been completely ruined, after all.

She jumps up, ready to leave the newspaper and the rest of her worries behind for the day –

– at least until she hears the sound of slow-clapping, causing her to stiffen.

'Well, well,' someone drawls from behind her, high and catlike. 'You never fail to impress, milady.'

Marinette's smile fades. _I know that voice_. 'Chat Noir,' she greets, straining to keep her face and tone pleasant as she pivots on her heel. The infamous street journalist is leaning against the bench she just vacated, wearing a smirk and his signature black catsuit. 'What a coincidence.'

'You really gave 'em all the run-around, huh,' Chat Noir goes on, ignoring her attempt at pleasantries. He pushes off from the bench and, with a deliberate sort of slowness, begins to pace in front of her, absently swinging his tail-like belt as if it were a pendulum. 'Pretty fun to watch, but you know they'll figure it out eventually.'

'Well.' She levels a flat stare at his moving figure, niceties be damned. 'I'll be long gone by then.'

He halts in his tracks. Shakes his head. 'You could've just left all your outerwear somewhere,' he points out. 'Personally, I would've just thrown 'em at random people as they passed by.'

'And what, let _them_ get chased by those vultures?'

Chat Noir gives her a playful wink, unfazed by her affronted look. 'Not all of us know a bike courier girl, let alone one that appears on a specific street at a specific time with a stuffed bear in the back.'

 _Manon_ , she thinks, recalling the honey-eyed teen who'd zipped past her bench earlier. It's been a long time, but even now she can still remember babysitting her as a bratty five-year-old dressed in pigtails and overalls. _He knows about Manon._

Feeling oddly vulnerable all of a sudden, Marinette hugs her arms over her chest and narrows her eyes at him. Knowing that he's seen right through her is one thing, but the cold is finally starting to get to her, seeping through the thin layers of clothing – and patience – she has left. 'Right. Cut to the chase, Chat Noir – what do you want.'

He takes a few steps forward in her direction. Leans in, close enough to see his eyes gleam from behind his mask, close enough to see that bright, intense shade of green, and breathes, ' _You._ '

Marinette pushes him back by the tip of his nose. ' _I'm leaving._ '

Before she can turn to stalk away, a warm, barely-there weight settles over her shoulders.

'Sorry, sorry,' Chat Noir soothes. There're still traces of laughter in the lilt of his voice, but she can tell from his expression that he's making an effort to sober up. 'It's just – you're so easy to tease. You have my apologies.' As he pulls the olive-green jacket more securely around her, fingers deft and eyes half-lidded, he adds:

'I _am_ truly in need of your assistance, milady.'

.

If someone had told her that she'd be spending her first day off in a sidewalk café with the mysterious, ever-elusive Chat Noir – known for his knack for vigilante justice and getting on her nerves – Marinette would've laughed. Or stormed away with the roll of her eyes, had it been Chat Noir himself.

And yet here they are now, with her still wearing his jacket and him waiting at the pick-up counter and no one else in the café concerned about the latter, and it feels a bit like a fever dream. _Someone going about their day in a catsuit must be more common in Paris than I thought_.

She glances down at herself. The jacket's nearly two sizes too big for her, with the sleeves sliding down her forearms if she so much as breathes a certain way, but it's infinitely better than whatever she has underneath so she'll gladly re-fold the cuffs back with little to no complaints.

'Here.' The quiet _clink_ of china against the table brings her back to the present. 'English breakfast with one sugar and a hint of milk, right?'

'Oh.' Marinette blinks. _He knows how I make my tea? How does he – oh_. It's coming back to her now: he'd scheduled an interview with her on-set a few months ago, and offhandedly he'd asked about the drink her personal assistant had gotten for her halfway through. She's surprised he even remembered. 'Yeah, that's right. Thanks.'

He lifts his cup of coffee at her in a _cheers-it-was-no-big-deal_ sort of way; she bites down on the inside of her cheek to hide a smile. Chat Noir may be insufferable, but he does have his moments.

'So.' She steeples her fingers and meets his gaze squarely. 'What do you need help with this time?'

'Oh, right.' Chat Noir swipes the foam off his mouth with the back of his hand before pulling his phone out from his sling bag. She's barely noticed him carrying it until now, but in hindsight, it should've been obvious: the jacket certainly didn't appear out of nowhere, after all.

He slides his phone across the table towards her. 'What do you know about this man?'

Marinette pulls the phone closer to her. The screen is set to a low brightness setting – understandably, given the sensitive nature of Chat Noir's work – but she can still see the picture of a tall, impeccably-dressed man with great clarity, from his slicked-back hair to his piercing blue eyes. She recognises him in an instant – or rather, remembers the person she associates him with.

.

' _Adri, wait up,' she huffs, gasping for breath. 'My legs are shorter than yours, you know!'_

' _Sorry, sorry! I got too excited.' He half-turns to face her, extending a hand. She burns this moment into her memory: his silhouette, backlit by the evening sun; his smile, warm and infectious. 'Let's go, Mari.'_

.

No, she can't do this. Not right now. She tears her gaze away from the phone and stirs her tea a little too vigorously. 'That's Gabriel, right? Gabriel Agreste. He's done wardrobe for us a few times, mostly for promo shoots. Keeps to himself, knows his stuff well. Incredibly efficient. He's alright to work with, I guess, once you get past his...' She stops just as abruptly, allowing the plastic stirrer to circle around the cup with the leftover momentum. '...standoffishness.'

'I see. Have you seen him around recently?'

'Seen him around?' she echoes, eyebrows furrowing.

'Yeah. Y'know, like.' He gestures vaguely. 'Have you seen him since arriving to Paris?'

Her frown deepens. 'Not that I can remember, no. Besides – I was basically ambushed by the paparazzi from the moment I got off the train, so I wouldn't have noticed anyway. Why?' A little more hesitantly, she adds, 'Is he... the new butterfly?'

 _Is he your next target?_

Chat Noir hums, neither confirming nor denying anything – as usual. He takes his time in pocketing his phone, clearly stalling, and then: 'He's up to something, I can feel it. It's just a matter of time.'

Marinette leans back in her seat. As much as she'd love to probe him for more information – _Adri, did you find anything about his son, Adrien Agreste, he disappeared a few years ago and Gabriel doesn't give a damn and god Adri where are you_ – she can't help noticing the way his expression has darkened considerably, the white-knuckled grip over his cup as he stares holes into his coffee –

And she lets the words die on her tongue. He has more than enough things on his plate for now.

'Hey.' Guided by nothing but her heart, she reaches across the table to clasp her hands over his, clumsy but sincere. The leather of his gloves may be solid and tough, but she can still feel the warmth – _his_ warmth – that lies within. 'I don't know what he's up to, or what you're up against, but – it'll be alright. You'll get him eventually. I know you will.

'I believe in you.'

Chat Noir doesn't reply; he just _looks_ at her, regards her with this expression she's never seen before, as if there's a war raging on the inside and no matter what he does, he'll lose. Marinette has only seen such a conflicted look once before, and her heart freezes in her throat.

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 _She finds him behind their high school field, kicking at stray pebbles on the ground._

' _Adri?' He didn't show up for class today, Alya had said. Something happened at home, Nino had said. She's been searching for him for hours and she still doesn't know what to think. 'Adri, what's wrong?'_

 _When he doesn't look up, she adds, her voice like hammered glass: 'Adri – look at me. Please.'_

 _He's never been able to say 'no' to her. Slowly, reluctantly, he raises his head._

.

 _RIIIIING!_

'AH!' Marinette pulls her hands away with a jolt, accidentally banging her knee against the table in the process. ' _Ow!_ ' As the brief sting of pain disappears, the ringing finally registers in her brain – _that's my phone!_ – and she scrambles to answer it. 'H – hello? Alya? Alya, hey! No, no, I'm fine – I'm sorry I didn't call right away, I just – no! No, I'm not on a date! _Why would I be on a date?_ '

She looks up to shoot a glare at Chat Noir – who's back to his usual self and waggling his eyebrows – and tries to focus on Alya's constant stream of chatter. ' _Yes_ , you'll be the first to know if I'm on a date, Alya, I _promise_. I'm in Paris already! Mm-hm. Yeah, no, of course we're still meeting! I just got caught up with something, that's all. I mean, it's not _that_ – ' She looks at her watch. _3.52pm_. 'Oh my god.'

 _It's been an hour and a half already?_

'Jesus, Alya, I'm so sorry – I didn't realise the time!' Marinette tucks the phone into the crook between her face and her neck, and with a few quick gulps, she downs the rest of her now-cooled tea. 'I'm on my way now, I'll see you in a bit – we're meeting at the usual place, right? Oh, oh, hold on a sec – '

Pressing the phone to her chest, she turns to Chat Noir. 'Um – '

'Go.'

'Huh? But we're not done yet, right, you still have – '

'You've got places to be, milady. Just go.'

Marinette frowns; she's supposed to meet Alya today, yes, but she doesn't feel great about bailing on him like this, either. 'Call me,' she tells him finally, her mind made up and her tone brooking no room for argument. 'You know my number, right? Drop me a text or something. I'll be here till next week.'

Before he can reply, she raises the phone back to her ear and makes a beeline for the exit. 'Yeah, Alya, I'm still here. Is Nino in town this week? Ah, I see. That's a shame. Mm. I guess we'll have to meet him some other time then. Oh!'

She presses the phone to her chest again and whirls around, waving frantically in Chat Noir's direction. When she finally manages to catch his eye, she points down at herself. _Your jacket_ , she mouths at him.

 _Keep it_ , he mouths back. He's not smirking for once; his smile is soft, terribly fond.

With the shake of her head and a small smile of her own, Marinette hurries down the street, laughing at the high-pitched chittering on the other end of the line. 'Alright, alright – I'm _coming_ , Alya, jeez!'

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Chat Noir conceals a mirthless chuckle behind the rim of his cup, watching as her figure grows smaller and smaller until it eventually disappears around the corner. 'She hasn't changed one bit.'

He sets the cup aside and looks down at his hands. Remembers the ghost of warmth – _her_ warmth – that seeped through the thick layers of his gloves, remembers that fleeting moment of impulse to take her hands in his, to hold them tight and never let go again, to tell her that _Chat Noir's real name is_ –

No. It won't happen again. It can't. He averts his eyes and checks his phone; there's one new message from his informant.

 **P. Lagg • 3.58pm  
** _G's on the move. End: LGP. Meet Y/N?_

 _That's close to the café we used to frequent_ , Chat Noir observes idly. He wonders if he should be more concerned about this, but quickly dismisses it without further thought. If there's anything she's proven with the paparazzi today, it's that she's more than capable of handling herself.

 **C. Noir • 4.03pm  
** _Understood. Meet Y, est. 15._

'Till we meet again, Mari.'

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 **end.**

 **[ note ]** things that never made the final cut (but are most definitely canon to this au):

\- noir chewing the scenery and monologuing about how mari outsmarted the paps

\- noir extending his hand towards mari and mari taking it, rolling her eyes  
(—expectation: him kissing the back of her hand like a tru gentleman  
—reality: him just really, _really_ wanting to point dramatically at her watch)

\- the paps finally realising they've been chasing after this random teen selling+delivering cookies  
(—the paps just. buying some from her since they're hungry from all that running anyw)

\- 'is it true that you're dating ex-contestant nathaniel kurtzberg?' _(cue incoherent spluttering)_  
\- this entire fic but in past tense

kudos to anyone who can figure out 1) the significance of the title and 2) what plagg+noir's msgs said ;3c


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